Crime and Punishment (13 page)

Raskolnikov did not sit down, but was reluctant to go away, standing before her in perplexity. This boulevard is always deserted, but now, at two o'clock in the afternoon, and in heat like this, there was almost no one about at all. Yet, to one side of them, on the edge of the pavement, some fifteen paces away, a certain gentleman had stopped; by the look of him he would also very much have liked to approach the girl with certain intentions in view. He had probably spied her from a distance and caught her up, but Raskolnikov had spoiled his plans. He was giving Raskolnikov malevolent looks, trying, however, not to make them too obvious, and impatiently awaiting his turn, which would come after the bothersome fellow in rags had gone. It was obvious what the gentleman was after. He was about thirty years old, plump and thick-set, with a milk-and-blood complexion, pink lips, a little moustache and a very modish style of dress. Raskolnikov was filled with a terrible anger; he suddenly wanted to do something to insult this plump man-about-town. Leaving the girl for a moment, he went up to the gentleman.

‘Hey, you! Svidrigailov!
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What do you want here?’ he shouted, clenching his fists and laughing through lips that had begun to froth with rage.

‘What's the meaning of this?’ the gentleman asked sternly, frowning and expressing supercilious astonishment.

‘Clear off, that's what!’

‘How dare you, you riff-raff!’

And he brandished his riding whip. Raskolnikov rushed at him with his bare fists, not even pausing to consider that the thick-set gentleman could easily dispose of two men such as himself. Just then, however, someone seized hold of him from behind: between them stood a policeman.

‘That'll do now, gentlemen, no scrapping in public places, if you don't mind. What do you want? Who are you?’ he said to Raskolnikov sternly, observing his rags.

Raskolnikov gave him an attentive look. This was a gallant soldier's face, with a long, grey moustache, and side-whiskers; its expression was an intelligent one.

‘You're the very man I want,’ Raskolnikov shouted, seizing him by the arm. ‘I'm Raskolnikov, ex-university student… It wouldn't do you any harm to take note of that, either,’ he said, turning to the gentleman. ‘And as for you, please come with me – I want to show you something…’

And, seizing the policeman by the arm, he drew him towards the bench.

‘There, look, she's completely drunk; she was walking down the boulevard just now: God knows who her people are, but she doesn't look like one of the profession. Most likely somebody gave her too much to drink and made her the victim of foul play… for the first time… – do you get my meaning? – and then just let her wander off down the street. Look how her dress is torn, look at the way she's got it on: I mean, somebody put it on for her, she didn't do it herself – and whoever it was had clumsy hands, the hands of a man. That's obvious. And now look over there: that man-about-town I was just about to get into a brawl with – I don't know him, never seen him before; but he also saw her walking along just now, drunk and not really aware of where she was, and he's just raring to go up to her now and intercept her – since she's in that state – so he can drive her off somewhere… I'm certain that's so; believe me, I'm not mistaken. I saw the way he was watching her, spying on her, but I got there before him, and now he's waiting till I'm gone. Look, there he is over there now, he's moved away a little, I think he's rolling himself a cigarette
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… Are we just going to let him get his hands on her? Aren't we going to try to fetch her home? Think about it!’

In an instant the policeman had taken it all in and sized up the situation. The stout gentleman was easy enough to make out, but there remained the girl. The old soldier bent down to take a closer look at her, and sincere compassion showed itself in his features.

‘Ah, what a shame!’ he said, shaking his head. ‘She's still just a child. She's been the victim of foul play, there's no doubt
about that. Listen, young lady,’ he said, trying to get her to sit up. ‘Where do you live?’ The girl opened her tired, bleary eyes, looked dully at her interrogators and waved them away with one arm.

‘Listen,’ Raskolnikov said. ‘Here’ – he felt in his pocket and drew out twenty copecks; he could spare them – ‘Look, hire a cab and tell the driver to take her to her home address. Only we'll have to find out what it is, first!’

‘Young lady – er, young lady!’ the policeman began again, taking the money. ‘I'm about to get you a cab and I'll come with you in it myself. Where have we to go? Eh? Where do you have your quarters?’

‘G'way!… Shtop peshtering me,’ the girl muttered, and again gave a defensive wave of her arm.

‘Ah, ah, how terrible! Ah, how shameful, young lady, how shameful!’ Again he began to shake his head in embarrassment, compassion and indignation. ‘Why, there's a poser for you, sir!’ he said, turning to Raskolnikov; as he did so, he once again quickly looked him up and down from head to foot. No doubt he thought the young man strange: dressed in such rags, yet parting with money!

‘Was it far from here that you found her, sir?’ he asked.

‘I tell you, she was walking along ahead of me, staggering to and fro, right here on the boulevard. As soon as she reached the bench she just flopped down on it.’

‘Oh, what shameful things happen in the world nowadays, Lord in Heaven! A simple little thing like that, and she's drunk! She's been the victim of foul play, that's for sure! Look, her little dress is torn… Ah, the depravity there is nowadays!… And she's probably from a good family, one that's not got much money… There's a lot of those now. You can tell by the look of her that she's one of the delicate kind, sort of ladylike,’ – and again he bent down over her.

Perhaps he himself had daughters like this – ‘the delicate kind, sort of ladylike’, with well brought-up manners and all the latest fashions already thoroughly assimilated…

‘The main thing,’ Raskolnikov said anxiously, ‘is to stop that villain getting his hands on her! I mean, he's just going to commit
another outrage on her. It's perfectly obvious what he wants; look at him, the villain, he's still standing there!’

Raskolnikov spoke these words in a loud voice, pointing straight at the person whom they concerned. He heard them, and seemed on the point of flying into a rage again, but thought the better of it and confined himself to a single contemptuous glance. Then he slowly withdrew another ten paces or so, and once again came to a halt.

‘We can stop him doing that, sir,’ the old NCO replied thoughtfully. ‘All she has to do is tell us where to drop her off, and… Young lady! Er, young lady!’ he said, bending forward again.

The girl suddenly opened her eyes wide, looked attentively at them, as though she had just realized something, got up from the bench and set off back in the direction from which she had come.

‘Ugh, you shameless brutes, shtop peshtering me!’ she said, with the same defensive wave of her arm. She was walking quickly, but staggering badly, as she had been before. The man-about-town began to follow her, but along the other side of the boulevard, keeping his eyes trained on her.

‘Don't worry, sir, I won't let him get away with it,’ said the man with the long moustache in a firm voice, and he set off in pursuit of them. ‘Ah, the depravity there is nowadays,’ he said again, out loud, sighing.

At that moment Raskolnikov reacted as though he had been stung by something; in a single instant he seemed utterly transformed.

‘Listen, hey!’ he shouted after the man with the long moustache.

The latter turned round.

‘Stop it! What's it to you? Forget about it! Let him have his bit of fun.’ (He pointed at the man-about-town.) ‘What's it to you?’

The policeman failed to comprehend, and stared at him. Raskolnikov burst out laughing.

‘A-ach!’ the old soldier said, and with a wave of his arm set off in pursuit of the girl and the man-about-town, doubtless of
the opinion that Raskolnikov was either a madman or something even worse.

‘He's walked off with my twenty copecks,’ Raskolnikov said with vicious irritation when he was left alone. ‘Well, I hope the other fellow gives him the same to let him get his hands on the girl, and then that'll be the end of it… Why did I poke my nose in, trying to help? Is it for me to do that? Do I have any right to? Oh, they can swallow each other alive for all I care! And how could I ever have gone and given away those twenty copecks? Were they mine?’

In spite of these strange remarks, he felt really terrible. He sat down on the abandoned bench. His thoughts were distracted ones… In general at that moment he felt terrible trying to think of anything at all. He would have liked to sink all his troubles in oblivion, forget everything and then wake up and begin completely anew…

‘Poor girl!’ he said, looking at the empty corner of the bench. ‘She'll come out of it, cry a bit, and then her mother will get to know… First she'll box her ears, then she'll give her a thrashing, a hard, painful and ignominious one, and then she'll probably turn her out of the house… And even if she doesn't, the Darya Frantsovnas will get wind of it, and soon my little girl will start trotting about from one port of call to another… Then it'll be straight to hospital (it's always the ones who live very proper lives at home with their mothers and get up to mischief on the sly who end up there), well, and then… and then hospital again… vodka… the drinking dens… and again the hospital… and in two or three years’ time she'll be a paralysed cripple, and the sum-total of her years will be nineteen, or perhaps only eighteen… Haven't I seen girls like that before? And how did they get to be like that? That's how they got to be like that… Pah! So be it! It has to be like that, they say. They say that each year a certain percentage has to go off down that road
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… to the devil, I suppose, in order to give the others fresh hope and not get in their way. A percentage! Nice little words they use, to be sure: they're so reassuring, so scientific. Just say: “percentage”, and all your troubles are over. Now if one were to choose another word, well, then… then things might look a little less
reassuring… And what if Dunechka ends up in the percentage?… If not this year's, then perhaps that of another?

‘But where am I going?’ he thought suddenly. ‘That's funny. I mean, I came out for something. As soon as I'd finished reading the letter, I came out… I set off for Vasily Island to see Razumikhin, yes, that's right… I remember, now. But the only thing is – why? And how did the idea of going to see Razumikhin happen to enter my head just now, of all times? It's extraordinary!’

He marvelled at himself. Razumikhin was one of his old university friends. It was a point worthy of note that during his time at the university, Raskolnikov had had practically no friends, had avoided all the other students, never gone to see any of them and received their visits with reluctance. But in any case, they all quickly turned away from him. He somehow failed to take any part in their communal gatherings, their discussions and their amusements, and he had no share in any other aspect of their lives. He studied intensely, not sparing himself, and for this he was respected; nobody liked him, however. He was very poor and at the same time somehow haughtily arrogant and uncommunicative: as though he were keeping something to himself. Some of his fellow students had the impression that he looked down on them all from a certain height, as though they were children, as though he had outstripped them all in terms of education, knowledge and convictions, and that he viewed their convictions and interests as something inferior.

For some reason, on the other hand, he had got along with Razumikhin; or, if that were putting it too strongly, had at least been on more communicative, more plain-talking terms with him. It was, in fact, impossible to be on any other kind of terms with Razumikhin. He was an uncommonly cheerful and talkative fellow, good-natured to the point of naïveté. Beneath this outward simplicity of manner there lay, however, both depth of character and a certain dignity. The better of his companions understood this, and everyone liked him. He was very far from being stupid, though on occasion he really could be a little naïve. His appearance said a lot about him – tall, thin, always ill-shaven, black-haired. He occasionally got into brawls,
and had the reputation of being a bit of an athlete. One night, when out with some others, he had with a single blow brought down a certain pillar of the law about six and a half feet tall. His capacity for alcohol was limitless, but he could equally well go without it altogether; sometimes he indulged in pranks to an impermissible degree, but he often went for long periods without indulging in them at all. Razumikhin was also remarkable for the fact that none of his failures ever upset him, and it appeared that there were no adverse circumstances capable of weighing him down. He could make his lodgings anywhere, even on the roof, put up with the most terrible hunger and the severest cold. He was very poor and was decidedly his own sole supporter, scraping together what money he could from various odd employments. He knew a million ways of getting hold of money, always in the form of earnings, of course. For the whole of one winter he did not heat his room at all, and he asserted that it was even more comfortable that way, as one slept better in the cold. At the present time he, too, had been compelled to give up the university, but it was not to be for long, and he was hurrying with all his might to improve his circumstances, so as to be able to resume classes as soon as possible. It was some four months since Raskolnikov had been to see him, and Razumikhin did not even know where he lived. Once, a couple of months back, they had met in the street, but Raskolnikov had turned away and even crossed over to the other side, hoping that the other would not notice him. And Razumikhin, though he had noticed him, walked on by, not wishing to bother his
friend
.

‘It's true, I did think of asking Razumikhin to help me find some work recently, I was going to ask him if he couldn't get me some private teaching, or something of that sort.’ The recollection suddenly dawned upon Raskolnikov. ‘But how can he help me now? Supposing he is able to get me some teaching, supposing he does have a copeck to spare, so I can even buy a pair of boots and have my clothes mended, to be able to go and give lessons…
hm… Well, and what then? What will I be able to do on a few
pyataks
? Is that what I require? It's really rather silly of me to have come to see Razumikhin…’